The Continuing Adventures of Herbert West
by Aurora West
Summary: Herbert West lands in a small Iowa town following the events of Beyond ReAnimator, hoping to stay out of trouble and continue his research. But trouble seems to follow Dr. West wherever he goes.
1. Prologue

I of course own none of this. And, a word of warning -- I began this story a good two and a half years ago and may never finish it, but I do like it so I thought I'd put it up here.

Prologue

Herbert West stepped off the bus and squinted as its wheels kicked gravel towards his face. Dust settled in his unkempt hair and he brushed it out, watching the receding taillights with an unreadable expression on his face. Then, turning around, he let his eyes roam over the town he'd disembarked in. It was small--just three motels, a couple gas stations, and bars. A stop on the way to greater things. Charming. He could see a residential area about half a mile from the town proper, and by the looks of it, it wasn't too prosperous.

So this was Iowa. Herbert glanced at the setting sun. Iowa or not, sleeping on the street didn't seem like the most appealing idea, so one of these motels would have to do. He settled on the seediest, and therefore, cheapest, of them, which was ridiculously named, "The Lone Spur Lodge." There didn't seem to be any spurs in the area, lone or otherwise. Surreptitiously, he pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and quickly counted it. Four hundred dollars. All the money he had to his name. After escaping from prison, he'd withdrawn everything from his bank account and closed it. Everything hadn't amounted to much, though, after having paid for a lawyer so many years ago.

But four hundred dollars would get him a room for the night and a ride to a city nearby, which supposedly was home to a small health clinic. And with the ID that his late protégé, Howard Philips, had so kindly bestowed upon him, he was sure he'd be gainfully employed in no time.

At least, he hoped so. After all, he needed the money to continue with his work.


	2. Dunstonville

Chapter 1: Dunstonville

Dunstonville, Iowa. Nothing but gently undulating fields of feed corn as far as the eye could see. And yet, somehow, there was a medical clinic on the edge of town. It was too small, understaffed, and hopelessly out of date, but its isolation and unimportance made it perfect.

"Well, Doctor Philips, how about the grand tour?"

After two weeks in Iowa, Herbert West had managed to land a position at the Dunstonville Clinic under the name Howard Philips, take out a loan on a beat-up '87 Toyota, and rent a room above one of the multitudinous bars in town. He'd also managed to come to the conclusion that Iowa, or at least the part he was in, was inhabited mainly by beer-guzzling, large-bottomed, mullet-touting rednecks who tended to make remarks about his appearance and his "city accent." No, he did not wear faded AC/DC t-shirts. Was that a problem?

The young, overly ebullient nurse at the clinic who was currently beaming at him didn't seem to be quite as extreme of a specimen as many of the locals (at least, she didn't have a mullet). He attempted to smile at her as she bounced down the hall with him in tow. It wasn't easy.

"And this is Jessica, and here's Adam, and Jason--he's an intern…"

She'd been prattling on in a similar manner for about a half an hour and all Herbert really wanted to do was get to work. The waiting room had already been full of people when he'd walked in at nine o'clock, and she was demonstrating to him the intricacies of the coffeemaker. "Kelly," he said, interrupted her endless chatter, "would you mind showing me my office?"

She actually shut up for a split second before saying, "Yeah, sure! But wait, I'll introduce you to Dan first, he's one of the other doctors."

Herbert resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. One would think the girl would have figured out by now that he didn't want to socialize with any of his coworkers. Nevertheless, she led him into an office, where a tall man was scribbling on a clipboard. Herbert glanced perfunctorily at him as he mumbled, "Hang on a minute," did a double take, and looked again. He couldn't help it--his eyes widened and his jaw dropped, and he barely slapped his calm exterior back on his face as the man extended a hand, looked up from the clipboard, and began, "Hi, I'm Dan Ca--"

The two men stared at each other for several incredibly long, tense moments. Herbert darted his eyes at Kelly, who was beginning to look _very_ confused and a little worried. Not good. It would do to have her repeating this story to anyone. Herbert knew what he had to do.

Grasping Dan's hand and shaking it firmly, Herbert said, "Doctor Howard Philips. I'm afraid I didn't quite catch your name?" Hm, there was a ring on his finger. Was he married?

Dan gaped for a couple more seconds before choking out, "Cain. Doctor Cain."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Cain," Herbert returned, pulling out a smile that was, at best, sardonic.

There was a definite note of barely suppressed hysteria in Dan's voice as he replied, "Yeah. You too. Um. I have a patient."

"Of course you do," Herbert agreed, "And I should really be getting to work as well. Kelly?" With that, he spun on his heel and left the room, with Kelly right behind him.

"That was kind of _weird_," she remarked. Well, at least she was forthright. "Do you two know each other?"

Herbert raised his eyebrows. "I've never met Doctor Cain. And I fail to see the strangeness in our introduction."

"Huh. Anyway! Here's your office, Doctor Philips, room eighty-five. You're supposed to use today to get to know the place and our routine."

"I'll do that." He stepped into the room and surveyed it. Adequate. "Thank you, Kelly, you've been most helpful."

"Sure!" Kelly gave him a bright smile and, at long last, left.

With a long-suffering sigh, Herbert quietly closed the door and sat down to gather himself.

Daniel Cain was a doctor at this clinic. Daniel Cain, on whom he'd wasted precious time and energy to try and make him understand the importance of the reanimation research. Daniel Cain, his former partner, who had happily testified against him in court, helping to give him a life sentence in prison. He was somehow, out of every place on the planet, working two doors down from Herbert in Dunstonville, Iowa.

Herbert took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. If there was one thing that could bring his plans crashing down, it was Dan Cain. He wondered how long it would take the staff at the clinic to find out that his name wasn't Howard Philips.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath to calm himself. He was not going to go back to prison. He would--somehow--find a way to take control of this situation, or, barring that, exit it. Gracefully, of course. But he couldn't sit in this room all day. So, replacing his glasses, he slipped on his lab coat and stepped out into the hallway.

With a little finagling at the front desk, he managed to convince the secretary that he was quite ready to see patients (why she should be in control of his, he couldn't quite fathom), and the day passed rapidly amidst a series of minor injuries and illnesses. After the clinic closed, he stayed late exploring, until, around nine, he stepped out into the parking lot, fumbling in his pocket for the keys to his car.

"Herbert."

He wheeled around and noticed Dan standing in the shadows. "Yes?" he asked blandly.

To his utter amazement, Dan charged him and had him pressed up against the wall, fist raised threateningly, in about three seconds. "What the hell are you doing here?!" he growled.

Herbert briefly entertained the idea of fighting back and just as quickly dismissed it. Thirteen years in a maximum security prison had certainly given him the ability (and often a reason) to inflict pain, but he didn't want to show his hand just yet. Let Dan think he was in control. For now.

He swallowed awkwardly and said, "Really, Dan, let's be civil. It's a bit difficult to speak with you strangling me."

Dan hesitantly let go of him and stood there, eyes smoldering. "What do you want, Herbert? Why are you _here_?"

Herbert nearly laughed. Was it possible that he thought Herbert had tracked him down for _revenge_? How delightfully egotistical of him. Keeping his thoughts to himself, however, he answered carefully, "I'm just working. I had no idea you were here."

Dan narrowed his eyes. Apparently the truth was too good to be true. "What's with the fake name? And aren't you supposed to be in jail for life?"

"Parole," Herbert answered, a smug smile beginning to creep onto his face. The committee was very impressed with my excellent behavior."

"I heard there was some riot at Arkham Maximum Security. Your parole wouldn't have anything to do with that, would it?"

"Oh no," Herbert answered, still smiling slightly. "Tragic, that. But I'd already been out for six months."

"Like hell you had. I should turn you in. In fact--"

"Daniel," Herbert began very casually, "how long have you been married?"

Dan's eyes bulged a little. "You--"

"I imagine you have children by now. How old are they? Ten? Eleven, perhaps?"

"Are you _threatening_ me?" Dan hissed.

"'Threatening' is such a strong word." Herbert raised his eyebrows and stared levelly at his former partner before quietly unclasping his briefcase and reaching inside. "You know, while I was in prison, I was _very_ productive. Makes my earlier research look primitive by comparison. There was an unintended result of my work, though." His hand closed around the cool glass of a syringe and he slowly removed it, holding it in front of his face thoughtfully. The green glow of the reagent reflected off his glasses as he went on, "An overdose of this on a living subject is _extremely _interesting. A bit gory, but fascinating nonetheless."

Taking a step towards Herbert, Dan said, "Stay away from my family, West, or I swear, I'll--"

Herbert pointed the needle at Dan's face and the other man stopped short. "Or you'll what?" His tone grew hard as he continued, "You will only acknowledge me as Howard Philips and you are _not_ going to tell anyone what you know about me." He moved closer to Dan, bringing the needle within inches of his face and added in a low tone, "You destroyed my life once, Dan, but I'm a very hard man to crush. Don't try to do it again."

"I'm not afraid of you," Dan said in a steely tone.

"No?" Herbert chuckled a little. "I've always found courage to be an overrated concept." In one rapid motion, he pulled the syringe away from Dan and stowed it back in his briefcase. "Go home to your family, Daniel. All I want from you is to be left alone. I don't need you to continue my work, despite whatever self-important delusions you may have."

Herbert attempted to step around Dan, but the other man stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You're not still going to do your _research_?"

Herbert flicked his eyes towards the hand on his arm, tried to shrug out of Dan's grip, and when he was unsuccessful, pressed his lips together and answered, "Of course I am. I'll continue with my research until I've perfected it."

"You're insane! You can't set your "results" loose in Dunstonville!"

At that, Herbert wrenched his arm away, but instead of responding, he only repeated, "Go home. And consider yourself lucky that I'm not more vengeful." Without giving Dan the chance to speak, he strode away and slid into his car. Cars. How he hated cars. But this town was too pathetic for public transportation. Come to think of it, though, he hated Dan more than he hated cars. Herbert still couldn't believe that he'd had the audacity--never mind the spine--to testify _against_ him. How could he? After all Herbert had done for him! He'd turned Dan into a _scientist_--well, tried to, anyway. He'd _trusted_ him. He'd even…even _liked_ him. Since Herbert could count on one hand the people in his life whom he'd genuinely cared for (and his immediate family wasn't included), it made the betrayal hurt even more.

Yes, that was the problem, wasn't it? That day in the courthouse when Dan had taken the witness stand for the prosecution and Herbert had nearly lost control of his carefully suppressed emotions--it wasn't because Dan was turning his back on the work, it was because he was turning on his friend. At least, Herbert had thought they were friends. The pain of Dan's testimony had taken him completely by surprise, so much so that his eyes had actually stung before he'd clamped them shut. Dan had just stood there and proclaimed his criminality, his psychosis, and his utter insanity to the world.

All right, so that was fine. Dan had wounded him horribly and he'd never recover from it. Fine. But he'd just realized something even worse. He didn't hate Dan. Oh, he was mad at him--he'd been mad at him for thirteen years. There would be no revenge, though. The thought had never even crossed his mind.

Another realization--he was shaking. Dammit. He drew several deep breaths and started the car. How long had he been sitting here? Five minutes? He checked his watch. Yep. Was Dan still standing there? Hm. Yes. Why? Did he need a ride? There wasn't another car in the parking lot. Well, Herbert wasn't going to offer. He was perfectly content to let Dan think he despised him and had murderous intentions towards his family. That should keep him from doing anything noble, like turning him into the police.

Herbert heaved a sigh as he turned out of the parking lot and headed back to his apartment. He'd come to this godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere to make life less complicated. So why was it that simplicity seemed suddenly to have vanished?


	3. The Hand of Fate

Chapter 2: The Hand of Fate

Living above a bar had its advantages. From nine p.m. to one a.m., any strange crashes went completely unnoticed and so did any other odd noises. At all other times, there was nobody around to watch Herbert bring in specimens--road kill, mostly, but he was perfecting his live squirrel trap. The NPE theory may have been bunk in its early stages, but he'd make it work. All it took was discipline. Discipline was the key.

Though occasionally--_very_ occasionally--he'd go downstairs for a drink. He found it interesting to observe people engaging in their quaint social interactions, which generally consisted of fairly inebriated men hitting very blatantly on women, who reveled in the attention. Once a woman had talked to him. He'd scared her off pretty quickly, though. Intentionally. Women, for the most part, disgusted him. They were such weak, useless creatures and a constant distraction to less strong-willed men. He prided himself on the fact that he'd never allowed himself to be distracted. There had never been a woman that he cared the least bit about--oh, wait. There _had_ been one. And she'd been a perfect illustration as to why women were little better than a bane. He'd been young and unsuspecting then--too naïve to avoid her feminine snares. He'd been…distracted. And his work had suffered. It hadn't happened again.

Suddenly, a crash and a chorus of yells downstairs startled Herbert. A fight, perhaps? There was usually at least one a week and if there were any serious injuries, the bartender would come pounding up the stairs to ask for his assistance. Herbert paused in his work (admittedly, all he was doing at the moment was taking notes on the state of his carcasses) and listened for a moment. No one knocked on the door, but abruptly it was quite silent below him. Mildly curious, he got up and cracked the door open. Nothing of note happened for about a minute and he was about to go back to his desk, when someone said in an incredulous tone, "That is _sick_, man. Where the hell did you find it?"

"What _is_ it?" a woman's voice quavered.

Herbert narrowed his eyes a little and stepped quietly out onto the landing, where he could hear better and perhaps see what was going on.

It appeared that every patron in the bar was gathered around a burly man with a blond mullet. Most of them were staring at something on the table, which was obscured from Herbert's view. "It was just sitting on the porch," Burly Redneck said. "I thought it was awesome. Like, maybe a movie prop or something."

"That doesn't look like a prop to me. It's _moving_."

"Yeah, well, y'know, those movie people can do some fancy shit."

A collective scream suddenly went up ad everyone leapt away from the table. "Jesus Christ, Bob, your fuckin' hand just jumped at me!"

_Hand_? Herbert's eyes narrowed even further and he took another step forward.

"Hey, where's it going?"

"Catch it! It's headed up the stairs!"

Herbert saw it then. He blanched. And then he muttered, "Shit."

Swiftly looking around for anything that could be used as a weapon and finding nothing, he took several steps back into the shadows and waited for the little abomination to crest the top of the last step. Slowly, a finger reached over and felt around. Judging the area safe, the rest of the hand followed, and it scurried forward a couple of inches before stopping and surveying its surroundings again. In a moment, it continued creeping forward and Herbert prepared himself for attack. A couple more inches…yes…almost…

He raised his foot, brought it down as hard as he could on the hand, and was rewarded with the satisfying crunch of bones splintering. For good measure, he ground the severed appendage under his heel, taking no heed of the thick blood oozing out from beneath his shoe.

Just then, Bob the Burly Redneck appeared at the top of the stairs, flanked by curious onlookers. He cast his eyes over the dark landing until they settled on Herbert. "You see anything weird come up here, man?"

Herbert raised his eyebrows in an attempt at polite bafflement. "Weird? No, I'm afraid not. Just a spider, which has been dispatched from this plane of existence."

The bar patrons eyed him suspiciously. "Nothing?" one of them questioned. "Bob here found a…well, he had this hand that was…like…alive."

Herbert pursed his lips thoughtfully. "No, I certainly would have noticed _that_."

"Yeah, I s'pose you would've." Bob looked crestfallen. "Damn, that sucks."

"Maybe it didn't come up here," one of his buddies said supportively as they turned and descended the stairs.

Herbert watched them go before he removed his foot from the crushed hand and scraped the gore from his shoe as best he could. For a long moment, he just stood there studying the mess and he came to the conclusion, quickly, that there was no way he'd hallucinated the episode. That was most definitely a severed human hand that was currently plastered to the floor outside his room and to the bottom of his only pair of casual loafers.

He grabbed a rag from his room and cleaned up the remains as best he could (since, even smashed, there was still no doubt what it was), then unceremoniously dropped it in the garbage and sat down at his desk.

So. They were after him. A couple thousand miles was no deterrent to the dead, apparently. Herbert knew he could dismiss it as an isolated occurrence, but that would be foolish. That was the path to waking up one night surrounded by slathering zombies. The question was, when would they arrive, and how would he deal with it?

Herbert stared broodingly out the window for a minute. Well. He'd deal with that when the time came. Right now he had to catch up on his research.


	4. The Cat

Chapter 3: The Cat

Two weeks passed uneventfully. No innocent townspeople were attacked by the undead, nor did any more dismembered limbs turn up. At least, no one _found_ any. Herbert was quite sure they were out there, though, lying in wait for him. As a precaution, he kept a shovel in his car and a baseball bat in his room. And a flashlight , of course, to make sure nothing was lurking in a dark corner.

At the clinic, Herbert attempted to avoid Dan, and he was sure Dan was avoiding him. If the fact that he immediately left any room Herbert entered was any indication, anyway.

He'd also set up a lab in his apartment. Admittedly, it made moving around rather difficult, but he was quite willing to make sacrifices in the name of science. A bottle of reagent was currently stewing, and he'd rewired a lamp in order to continue working on NPE. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to get his hands on anything living yet, and he certainly wasn't interested in having crazed, reanimated rodents making a mess of the place.

As luck would have it, though, a living test subject crossed his path. Of course, he was driving at the time and ran it over, but when he stopped the car to investigate, he realized the animal was still alive. Barely.

He bent down to pick it up and then quickly situated it in the passenger seat before tearing away towards home. The cat's life was slipping away, and Herbert needed his nano-plasma.

He got the cat through the bar witout anyone noticing and quickly hooked it up to the wiring. In a couple seconds, it was dead by electrocution. Herbert rapidly made the preparations to re-animate it--the movements were habitual by now, allowing him to devote his full attention to wondering if it would even work to give an entity its own nano-plasma. It was worth a try. And if it didn't work, well, the cat had practically been dead, anyway. Stupid animal shouldn't be running across country highways.

Upon re-animation, it yowled in pain, but Herbert swiftly sent its nano-plasma coursing back through its neurocircuitry. He watched it carefully. Nothing happened for several seconds, but then, slowly, the cat opened its eyes. It tried to stand up and fell immediately, mewling pitiably and feebly moving its right foreleg.

"It worked," Herbert murmured, a hint of surprise in his tone. There _did_ seem to be something wrong with the cat, however. Taking a closer look, he realized its leg was bent at an odd angle and surmised that it was broken. Shattered, probably. He did what he could to take care of it until he could get it to a veterinarian. And then what would he do? Probably watch the thing for several days to make sure it wasn't going to go crazy or explode or something.

There was a tapping suddenly at his window and Herbert turned his head sharply. Nothing was there. Keeping a piercing stare on the sill, he approached it and opened it carefully, then slowly stuck his head outside. Still nothing. He remained there for a minute, looking into the night, before turning around.

At that moment, something with wings launched itself towards his face. Herbert jumped back with a yell and lashed out instinctively with his fists, connecting with nothing. When he wasn't attacked again, he cautiously glanced out the window once more and noticed a bat fluttering away. He just stared at it for a second, breathing heavily, and then began to laugh a little hysterically. "Paranoid," he said to himself, once he'd calmed down. "Very paranoid, Herbert."

He chuckled once more and reached up to close the window, and then he noticed someone lumbering slowly down the middle of the road. He squinted at it. Correction. Some_thing_. It was missing an arm. Herbert watched its progress towards the bar, wondering how it would attempt to get to him. Climb the wall, perhaps? Or maybe it would just walk straight through the bar.

As it turned out, he didn't get the chance to learn the answer. A car lurched out of the lot behind the building, engine revving, and tore down the street. Nothing in its path stood a chance. By the time it plowed into the zombie, it was going a good fifty miles an hour. The impact resulted in an explosion of decomposing flesh.

Herbert grinned. Yet another advantage to living above a bar--drunk drivers.

He didn't remain at the window to watch the police arrive on the scene, though he heard them. Instead, he turned his attention to straightening up his work space. The cat seemed to be watching him…a bit balefully, really. Herbert sighed. He supposed he should give it somewhere to rest more comfortably since he _had_ run over it in the first place.

Looking around, he spotted a couple of old shirts and piled them in a corner. Then, gingerly, he picked up the cat (which thankfully didn't scratch or bite him) and set it down in its makeshift bed. "And you'd better stay there," he warned it. It simply blinked at him. "Good. I'm glad we have an understanding."

It kept staring at him, blinking occasionally. For some reason, Herbert found it unnerving. He'd definitely take it to a vet tomorrow, keep it under observation for a day or two to make sure there were no unfortunate side effects of the re-animation, and then find out who it belonged to.

Yes, the cat could be dealt with. The zombies were going to present another, more difficult problem. The one outside that had just suffered such an explosive fate had been rather pathetic--clearly it hadn't been fresh enough upon re-animation, judging by the way it had been torn apart so easily--but he had no doubt that more would be on their way, and not all of them would be so unfortunate.

Herbert realized abruptly he couldn't deal with them on his own. Which meant he'd have to enlist someone's help. And the logical choice, of course, was Dan. And Dan despised him. Well. A challenge was always interesting. Dan had been, in the past, fairly easy to manipulate, and Herbert doubted that would have changed. But he doubted Dan would give up his grudge easily. What he needed, he thought, was a bargaining chip.

Herbert was cleaning up between patients the following day when a knock sounded on his office door. To his surprise, Dan stepped through and immediately shut it behind him.

"Something I can do for you?" Herbert asked.

Dan looked at him, though it seemed to be a great hardship to meet his eyes. "My cat," he said deliberately, "has disappeared. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you?"

Herbert returned his stare for a moment before continuing with his cleaning. "Why is it that whenever someone's pet goes missing, I'm the first one blamed?"

"Probably because you're always the one responsible."

Herbert paused and glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "Not always. Not this time, for example. I had no idea you even _had_ a cat. But I suppose that doesn't satisfy you."

Dan kept a wary eye on him as he moved about the room. "No, as a matter of fact, it doesn't."

"Well, what would, Daniel?"

For several long seconds, Herbert stared Dan in the eye, unblinking, until the latter finally looked away and replied, "I don't know. I just wish you weren't here."

"Is your guilt for getting me thrown in jail finally catching up with you?" Herbert asked in a clipped tone.

"No!" Dan exclaimed forcefully. Then, more quietly, he added, "No, that's the one thing I've never felt guilty about."

Herbert tilted his head a little. "Try not to be offended, but I don't believe you. I'll bet you've been trying not to think about it, these past thirteen years, but it always comes back to haunt you." He paused, briefly, to appraise Dan, who looked like he was trying to contain another angry outburst. Then he continued, "No doubt your wife notices these moments. What must she think? It must annoy her, at the very least, that you oculd sympathize even a little with such a freak. A madman who almost got you killed on several occasions should spend his life rotting in a windowless cell, yes?"

"Clearly," Dan said tightly, "you don't know me as well as you think you do."

"Maybe not." Herbert smiled unnervingly. "In any case, I don't know anything about your cat, and I believe I have an appointment to treat a little girl suffering from pneumonia. Surely she shouldn't be kept waiting?"

Dan looked like he wanted to say something else--or maybe hit something--but he only sighed in frustration and left. Herbert just rolled his eyes and then paused, a realization dawning on him. The cat. The cat would be his bargaining chip.


End file.
